


Coming Home (unfinished)

by china_shop



Category: due South
Genre: Community: wip_amnesty, Homelessness, Knitting, M/M, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-02-04
Updated: 2006-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray pushed his way through the crowded room to where Fraser was standing, and tugged him to one side. Without stopping for hellos, he said, "These guys are loners, Frase. Misfits. They ain't gonna be buddies with each other just 'cause you say so."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home (unfinished)

**Author's Note:**

> Gennish wannabe F/K slash, which would even have had a plot and everything, if only I could ever have made myself get around to writing the in-between bits

## Friday

Fraser's gloves were crumpled together, tan against the mass of paperwork on Ray's desk. Ray threw his empty coffee cup into the rubbish, and picked up the gloves absent-mindedly, the leather soft against his cold fingers. They were still warm. "Yo, Huey," he called. "You seen Fraser?"

Jack looked up from the Ascott case that'd been keeping him busy for weeks now. "Break room," he said, shortly. "He's teaching Frannie a lesson."

Ray frowned—was that innuendo?—but Jack was already lost in the latest autopsy report, so Ray shrugged and went to check it out.

   


* * *

   
Ray hesitated by the door, listening through the crack.

"—firm, not too tight." Fraser sounded infinitely patient.

"My thumb's in the way," came Frannie's voice, breathlessly. "It keeps slipping out."

"Ah, that's because—" The scrape of furniture against the linoleum. "Once you've had some practice, you'll find a natural rhythm."

"Is this okay?"

"That's very, ah, unusual technique." Fraser cleared his throat. "Quite creative."

"Creative's good, right?" said Frannie, doubtfully.

Ray shook his head. It had to be completely innocent. He was about to barge in when Fraser backed through the door in front of him.

"Yes, of course. Thank you kindly, Francesca," said Fraser, exiting hastily. He tugged on the hem of his tunic. "Ah, Ray. I was just coming to find you."

"Yeah." Ray took in his partner's flushed cheeks, as Fraser straightened his lanyard. "That makes two of us. What's going on?"

"Well, Ray, it seems we have something of a situation."

 

## Saturday

"—and as well as the matter of security, I'm persuaded you'll find there's considerable personal satisfaction to be found in strengthening the bonds of friendship within your community—"

Ray came into the back of the room and eased the door shut behind him, careful not to let it slam and interrupt Fraser's speech. The place was steamy and warm in direct contrast to the icy air outside, and it smelled of chili and tomato soup—which, seeing as how this was a soup kitchen, was to be expected—and of unwashed old guy.

The homeless guys from the whole neighborhood were packed onto seats and benches, perched on tables, or crouched on the floor with bundles of clothes and junk tucked between their knees. They were all listening intently.

Fraser, authoritative and reassuring, looked around the room and caught Ray's eye, raising his eyebrows in greeting. He was wrapping up. "—urge you to get into pairs or groups for support and safety. Thank you kindly for your time."

There was a smattering of applause, and one of the stinky guys made an aside to his benchmate, who guffawed loudly.

Ray pushed his way through the crowded room to where Fraser was standing, and tugged him to one side. Without stopping for hellos, he said, "These guys are loners, Frase. Misfits. They ain't gonna be buddies with each other just 'cause you say so."

Fraser met his eyes, and Ray got this weird feeling like they'd lost their footing or something, were sliding down a long steep slope, and he nearly reached out and grabbed Fraser's shoulder for balance. But all Fraser said was, "It's been my experience that even the most solitary person can benefit from having a friend."

"Whatever," said Ray, ignoring the sudden dizziness. "I talked to Welsh and he said no dice. Sorry Fraser. He said we don't have the manpower to go chasing down a scarf thief."

"But Ray, as a proportion of these people's total wealth, as tools for their survival, scarves are—"

"I _know_ , Fraser," Ray interrupted. "Welsh said I can help out on my own time. If you want, that is." That last bit was just fishing for gratitude, and he wasn't disappointed.

Fraser's smile warmed the cockles of his heart, yeah. "That would be wonderful, Ray. I'd be most grateful."

 _How grateful?_ wondered Ray before he could stop himself, but Fraser's gaze had already moved on.

"Ah. Please excuse me," he murmured. He sidestepped a pair of beetle-browed old German guys and disappeared into the throng.

"Sure. Excuse you. Sure," muttered Ray, glancing round the room again. It was like a high school dance in here: about half the guys were chatting and mumbling at each other, caught up in the social whirl like Fraser had encouraged them to do. They were breaking off into pairs and threesomes, clutching each other's sleeves and comparing ratty old possessions. The rest of the bums were sitting there quietly, too shy or freaked out, or maybe too crazy to approach anyone, and none of the socially ept ones were talking to them either. _Just_ like high school.

Fraser disappeared through a side door, letting in a blast of freezing cold air, and the door didn't shut properly either, so Ray went over to push it onto the latch, only when he got there he heard Fraser talking, so he kinda stuck his head out to listen in. Not eavesdropping, exactly. More like keeping an eye out, making sure his partner wasn't promising anyone the moon.

"Mr. Lacey. Are you all right? Why don't you come inside and I can introduce you to Charleson Greenwood? The two of you have a lot in common."

"Harvey Stewart died." Ray couldn't see who was speaking, but his voice was real old and grouchy.

"I'm very sorry to hear that." Fraser did sympathy like Astaire did tap-dancing: natural, full-bodied and one hundred percent _genuine_.

"In the snow, last winter, Harvey Stewart disappeared. Damned fool wouldn't come to the shelter." There was a long silence. Ray's teeth ached with the cold, and he started to shut the door, knowing how this would play out. Fraser would talk the guy into chumming around with someone and yadda yadda yadda.

"I don't want any more friends." Jeez, the old guy sounded stubborn. Ray paused, wondering what Fraser would say to that. It took a few seconds.

"I understand." There was a scrape of boot on pavement, and now Ray could see the back of Fraser's head, hair neat as ever. He must be holding his hat. "Perhaps, ah. Perhaps you'd allow my wolf to accompany you for a few days, as a safety measure."

And maybe Lacey could tell from Fraser's face that the Mountie could out-stubborn the best of them, because he muttered an agreement. Ray shut the door and moved away before he got caught listening in.

The two of them came in a few seconds later, Lacey stomping his feet and cussing about the weather, and Ray watched from across the room while Fraser introduced him to Dief and vice versa.

And the next thing Ray knew, he was watching this series of subtle maneuvers, whereby Fraser sat next to people and _listened_ to them, and said all the right things, and then gently prodded them into talking to _each other_ , like he was playing matchmaker or something.

When he'd done, everyone was talking to someone, and no-one looked uncomfortable, and Ray was thinking how hell of a lot easier school dances would've been if Fraser had been there, being so damned polite and kind, and helping people to relax.

On the other hand, this was a Chicago high school in the seventies he was talking about, and maybe Fraser would have been shredded alive. Those kids were _mean_.

   


* * *

   
Ray stirred extra sugar into his coffee and then clasped his hands on the scarred wooden table. Most of the homeless guys had left, gone back to wherever homeless guys go, but Ray still kept his voice down. "So," he said. "What do we know?"

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "About what?"

"About the scarf thief, Fraser. We're trying to catch a guy who's stealing scarves from homeless people, yeah? Well, what do we know?"

"Ah."

"What?"

Fraser stole a piece of Ray's bread and chewed it, probably the regulation number of times. "I've already identified the thief, Ray." Typical!

"So?" Ray stood up and reached for his jacket. Fraser didn't move. "So, what are we waiting for? Let's go get the guy, book him, and spend the rest of the day _warm_ , with _beer_ , in front of ESPN or something."

Fraser cleared his throat. "It's your day off, Ray. I understand if you'd rather be at home."

"No, no, no, Fraser. I'm just sayin'." Ray took a deep breath and sat back down. "What are we waiting for?"

Nothing on Fraser's face moved, his expression innocent and earnest as hell, but there was a light in his eyes that pretty much made up for Ray's feet being like shriveled blocks of ice.

Fraser continued, though, like it was just a normal conversation. "Well, I know who stole the scarves, and how. But I haven't yet established his motive."

"Do we care about the motive, Fraser?" Obviously yes, or they wouldn't be sitting here when they could be in some warm elsewhere. Ray flashed on an image of a hot shower filled with the two of them, of running a soapy hand down Benton Fraser's warm naked back, down to the curve of his—He shook his head clear, aware his cheeks were heating up.

"—rule, people only steal items they perceive to have some value."

"Right, right." Ray took a mouthful of too-hot coffee and burnt his tongue, which was almost a relief, because at least it distracted him from imagining his partner naked. "So why would someone steal a bunch of smelly old scarves?"

"Precisely." Fraser nodded as though the question alone explained everything.

 

## Monday

When Ray got to work, half an hour late because of the stubborn layer of ice on his windshield, Huey and Dewey were comparing yarn, while Frannie stood over them, waving a long knotty tangle of pink wool.

Ray put two and two together, and felt his shoulder muscles relax a couple of inches, for the first time in days. Not that he'd really thought anything was going on with Fraser and Frannie—hell, no! He wasn't _stupid_. But it was a relief to finally figure out what they'd be talking about in the break room the other day. It made him feel back in the loop, even if no one was keeping him there.

   


* * *

   
"Fraser, you freak! I got your message." Ray knocked once and barged into Fraser's office at the Consulate. "What did you mean, 'don't shave'?"

He stopped short at the sight of Fraser, with dark stubble shading his chin.

"Precisely what I said, Ray. If we're going to sleep on the streets, we need to blend in. It's a fundamental principle of camouflage."

"If we're going to _what_?! Fraser, it's ten below out there. I got a centrally heated apartment. Why would we—"

"Ray, you can't wear that scarf."

"What? Why not? This is a great scarf. I just bought it."

"It's a fine scarf, Ray. Too fine. We're are on the trail of a scarf thief. You can't wear that scarf."

"What the hell are you talking about, Fraser?"

"Under the circumstances, wearing that scarf would constitute entrapment, Ray. You can't wear it."

Ray stared at him. "You're unhinged."

"Wear this instead." Fraser pulled an ugly pink webby thing from his desk drawer. "Francesca made it for me."

"I'm not wearing that, Fraser. No way. No _way_!"

 

[Etc. Turnbull is knitting when they leave.]

 

_[Fraser and Ray go undercover as homeless guys to catch the scarf thief. Stuff happens. La la la. They get some leads.]_

 

## Part 3.

There was no answer when they knocked on the door, so they let themselves in and made their way to the back of the house. The kitchen was draughty and dark, some of the window panes broken. All of the cracks were crammed with scraps of cloth, old clothes, and yes, scarves. "I beg your pardon," said Fraser, "We didn't mean to intrude." Ray whirled round to see who he was talking to.

A shriveled ancient old lady, swathed in coats and even more scarves, sat huddled in a huge armchair. Her hands were swollen and gnarled and probably red, too, though the light in here was too bleak to really tell.

Ray flicked the light switch. Nothing. "Bulb's blown," he said.

"I don't think so," said Fraser. He crouched down next to the old lady. "The electricity's been disconnected, hasn't it, Mrs. Stewart?" He spoke clearly and kindly.

"Jeez, but Fraser, it's _freezing_ in here!" Ray shivered. No-one should be living like this, least of all at this time of year.

"Cold and lonely," Fraser agreed soberly. "When's your son coming back, Mrs. Stewart? Where's Harvey?" Without waiting for an answer, he lifted her tiny frame out of the chair, bundle of clothing and all, and carried her outside, shielding her from the wind with his body.

"Don't worry, lady. We'll take you somewhere warm, you can get fixed up." In the harsh light outside, her hands looked even worse, and she looked a hundred and thirty.

"Ray, could you call for an ambulance?"

"Yeah, sure." The old lady was shivering so hard he thought she'd shatter. "Sorry."

She shook her head as they approached the car, and reached out her claws to try and grip Fraser's coat, her joints so stiff they almost creaked. "I have to be here," she whispered, "When he comes home."

"Do you know when he's coming?" asked Fraser. "Are you expecting him?"

"Can't we leave a note?" Ray had a sinking feeling they were gonna have to stay here in the fucking cold and wait for Harvey, the scarf thief.

Fraser sat with her in the back of the GTO, holding her on his lap and warming her with his big strong body, while they waited for the EMT. Ray checked out the rest of the house, looking for more stolen stuff, and knowing it was ridiculous and selfish and downright _wicked_ to be territorial about Fraser's bodyheat at a time like this.

   


* * *

   
Welsh: Detective, do you know anything about this knitting situation?

Ray: No, sir. Nothing to do with me.

Welsh: Well, where's Constable Fraser when you need him?

Ray: Sir?

Welsh: Whenever I transfer between knit and pearl, my yarn gets tangled.

 

## Part x. (Penultimate scene)

Dief barked when he saw them, and ran over to say hullo. "Hey, boy," said Ray, rubbing his head.

Dief looked at Fraser and whined.

"Yes, you've done excellent work. Yes, I owe you a cream Danish."

Dief cocked his head.

" _One_ Danish. That's what we agreed."

Ray listened to them bicker with half an ear, while across the room he watched Lacey bask in the centre of attention, telling tall wolf tales to three middle-aged scruffy-looking guys.

"I'm certain Mr Lacey's personal scent is entirely natural," said Fraser. "You can't expect extra remuneration, simply because of your distaste for—"

Harvey Stewart came in the front door of the soup kitchen, scraping his tatty grey hat off his head and twisting it between his hands. He looked nervous, which was fair enough considering, but he squared his battered shoulders and walked across the room towards Lacey.

Ray caught his eye, and gave him an encouraging nod.

"—grown terribly soft. If your mother could see you now—" Jeez, Fraser was giving Dief a hard time.

Lacey saw Stewart and his jaw dropped. Even from here, Ray could see the old guy was beflummoxed, like he was seeing a ghost, which he probably thought he was. "Harvey?"

Stewart nodded sheepishly, and the other guys looked from one to the other like tennis spectators, and then backed away, went over to get more soup and give the guys some space.

"Harvey! Where you been? Good God, I thought you'd _died_."

Harvey took another step forward. "I was just—I had to take care of me mum."

"Amelia, ah yes. How is she?" Lacey put his hands on Stewart's shoulders and hugged him.

And maybe Stewart replied, Ray couldn't hear, and it didn't matter. He turned to Fraser, to find him watching him seriously. "The health insurance fraud," said Fraser, so quietly Ray had to lean forward to hear. "It was Stewart?"

Ray shrugged casually. "Yeah, Stewart claimed spousal benefits for his mom. Insurance company was all up in arms, but, Fraser." Ray gave his partner a little smile and patted him on the arm. "Mrs Stewart's doing better now, with her niece in Missouri, and, you know, Harvey Stewart's _dead_. Haven't you heard? Died last winter."

Fraser nodded and his lips curved into a smile, his gaze catching Ray's and holding it warmly.


End file.
